by Len Levinson
Butsko and Lieutenant Norton climbed the steps. A window was cut into the door, covered with a shade on the inside. Butsko reached toward the doorbell. Lieutenant Norton grabbed his arm.
“Remember what you said,” Lieutenant Norton told him. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Neither do I,” Butsko said.
Lieutenant Norton loosened his grip. Butsko pressed the doorbell. The shade opened and two slanted eyes peered out at them. The door opened, revealing a vestibule bathed in a red glow, with beaded curtains hanging down.
A gigantic Chinese man stepped out from behind the door. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and dark pants held up by suspenders. A big smile was spread over his face.
“Sergeant Butsko!” he said. “I not see you for long time! I thought maybe you got dead!”
“Only the good die young,” Butsko replied, shaking his hand. “Lemme introduce my friend, Lieutenant Norton.”
The Chinese man saluted Lieutenant Norton. “Welcome, sir! Good to have you aboard!”
Lieutenant Norton shook his hand.
“His name’s Sing,” Butsko said, “Mister Sing.”
“How do you do, Mister Sing,” Lieutenant Norton said.
A cloud of perfume hit the soldiers in their nostrils, and a few seconds later a woman in a low-cut red cocktail dress appeared in the vestibule. She took one look at Butsko and her eyes lit up.
“Well look what the cat just dragged in!” she said, wrapping her arms around Butsko and kissing him on the lips. “I thought they killed you long ago!”
“I’m still around,” Butsko replied, “and I’m still looking for pussy.”
“You came to the right place.”
“This is Rita,” Butsko said, making introductions, “and this is Lieutenant Norton.”
“He’s cute,” Rita said.
“How do you do,” Lieutenant Norton replied, blushing slightly.
“Let’s have a drink,” Rita said.
“That’s okay by me,” Butsko replied.
“Right this way,” Rita said, leading them through a smoky dark corridor. “When’d you get in town?”
“About a week ago.”
“How come you’re limping?”
“Jap shot me in the leg.”
“That son of a bitch!”
They came to a parlor, and Rita clapped her hands. A Chinese maid appeared. “Drinks for my friends,” Rita said.
“What you want?” the Chinese maid asked.
“Whisky straight,” Butsko said.
“The same for me,” Lieutenant Norton added.
The Chinese maid walked away, and a moment later young women filed into the room. They wrapped their arms around Butsko, licked his ears, and grabbed his dick. More women entered the room and did the same to Lieutenant Norton. Lieutenant Norton lost his balance and fell on top of a sofa. Four young women fell on top of him.
“Help!” Lieutenant Norton said weakly.
Rita walked up to Butsko and pinched his cheek. “It’s good to see you again, you old son of a bitch,” she said. “Everything’s on the house. Help yourself to anything you want.”
“Anything?” Butsko asked, his face covered with lipstick.
“Anything,” she replied.
“How about you?”
“Me?”
“Yes you.”
“I don’t do that stuff anymore.”
“You said anything.” Butsko looked at the nearest girl. “Didn’t she say anything.”
“She damn sure did,” the girl replied.
Butsko looked at Rita. “You said anything.”
Rita smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “Well,” she replied, “maybe just tonight, for an old friend.”
Bannon lay sound asleep underneath a bush in the New Guinea jungle. He dreamed about west Texas, the rolling desert hills and mountains. He was riding a horse, bouncing up and down in the saddle, his big cowboy hat knifing through the wind. His legs bounced against the saddle, making a slapping sound that became progressively louder. Finally the sound became so loud and irregular that Bannon was forced to open his eyes.
He sat bolt upright in the jungle and looked around, a scowl on his face. He heard sounds like machetes whacking against trees not far away. The machetes were headed in his direction. It sounded as if there were four of them. What the hell’s going on here? he wondered.
At first he thought the sound came from American soldiers looking for him, but then he realized that was unlikely. No one would send American soldiers into no-man’s-land to hunt an AWOL. Who in the hell was chopping up the jungle? It’s got to be the goddamned fucking Japs!
Wait a minute, he thought. It occurred to him that Japs might be moving through the thick of the jungle, staying away from main trails so they wouldn’t be observed. Also, the sound could be American soldiers moving stealthily into position for a surprise attack.
Bannon wondered what to do. If he moved perpendicular to the path of the advancing machete-bearers, he could get out of their way and continue his journey to the Torricelli Mountains. But if they were Japs, their presence in the area should be reported.
He decided that his first step should be to find out whether they were Japs or Americans. The best way to accomplish that would be to climb a tree and observe them as they passed by. He looked around for a tree that would be easy to climb, and saw one with low-hanging branches. Kneeling down, he mussed up the ground where he’d been, obscuring his footprints with damp leaves. He backed up, continuing to cover his tracks, and then jumped into the air, grabbing the branch. He pulled himself onto it and proceeded to climb the tree until he was fifteen yards high. He figured that’d be close enough to the ground to see the Japs, if in fact they were Japs, but far enough away so that they couldn’t see him.
He sat on a branch, rested his back against the trunk of the tree, and slapped a mosquito that landed on his jaw. A moment of panic struck him when he thought he’d left a can of C rations on the ground below, but then remembered that he’d buried it underneath a bush. Everything was okay. The Japs wouldn’t know he’d been there, if indeed Japs were coming.
The soldiers came closer. Bannon heard them hacking through the jungle, and then somebody shouted an order in Japanese! Now Bannon knew who he was dealing with. Japs were in fact moving through the jungle, evidently staying off the main trails because they didn’t want to be observed. The bastards are up to something, Bannon realized. They’re probably gonna launch one of their sneak attacks on the regiment again.
Bannon had no difficulty making up his mind about what to do about it. As soon as the Japs passed through the area, he’d climb down the tree and return to the regiment, to report what he’d seen. He sat motionless on the branch and hoped no Jap would look up and see him.
The sounds of the machetes came closer. Bannon narrowed his eyes and perceived four columns advancing through the jungle. A machete-bearer was at the head of each column, hacking through the vegetation. The Japanese moved quickly. One of the columns passed through the clearing underneath the tree where Bannon sat, and Bannon held his breath. He hoped nothing would fall out of his pockets, or that the moonlight wouldn’t glint off any of his equipment. The column advanced across the clearing and plunged into the jungle on Bannon’s left. Bannon counted the helmets underneath him, and the total was fifty-six.
The sound of machetes receded into the distance. Bannon waited until he couldn’t hear them anymore, then he shinnied down the tree, pulled himself together, and headed back to the American lines, to report what he’d seen.
NINE . . .
The Southern Strike Force arrived in the jungle south of Afua at just before dawn. The Japanese soldiers were exhausted, hungry, and mangy. They were ordered not to dig in, because the sounds of their shovels could be heard by the Americans, who weren’t far away. The fatigued Japanese soldiers lay on the ground and fell asleep immediately.
Colonel Sakakibara didn’t fall asleep immediately. He called a meeting of hi
s staff officers and spread out his map on the ground. Narrowing his eyes to slits, he examined the map in the dim light. He estimated where he was and gauged the distance between him and the Americans. He figured the Americans couldn’t be more than a thousand yards away. He wished all his troops were with him so that he could attack that very day, before the Americans knew they were in the area, but at least half of his striking force would arrive the next night, so the earliest he’d be able to attack would be tomorrow. But maybe I should give myself more time. He stood up over his map and looked at his staff officers. A frown was on his face and his eyes gleamed with determination.
“We can attack on the morning of the day after tomorrow,” he said to his officers, “but the Americans have come to expect night and dawn attacks. Therefore we will attack exactly at noon on the day after tomorrow, in broad daylight, and perhaps take the Americans by surprise. Pass this information on to your men. Make sure they get plenty of rest, but I don’t want any sound whatever to come out of this bivouac. Anyone who makes such a sound will die by my sword. Is that clear?”
The assembled officers nodded.
“Send out listening posts and guards,” Colonel Sakakibara said. “The officers of the day will remain awake. Everyone else may get some sleep. Meeting dismissed.”
Some officers disappeared into the jungle, to carry out orders. Others had no orders to carry out, and lay on the ground near Colonel Sakakibara, falling asleep instantly. Colonel Sakakibara glanced at his map one last time, then rolled it up. He sat on the ground and thought about his attack. He knew he would fall in battle, because his small force couldn’t hope to overwhelm all the Americans facing him. His life would be over soon, and he would die gloriously for the Emperor, killing as many Americans as possible before he himself was killed.
He saw himself like a crysanthemum blossom, falling to the ground at the peak of perfection. He wouldn’t have to become old, sick, and feeble. He wouldn’t have to become a beggar in his old age, or rely on charity. He would have the great privilege of dying for the Emperor while still a vigorous young man, and he’d go to heaven as a vigorous young man, not an old fart.
He closed his eyes and fell asleep, thinking of the glories of an honorable death at an early age.
The recon platoon returned to its bivouac shortly before dawn. Lieutenant Sears made his way to Headquarters Company and found Lieutenant Mike Bell in the command post. Lieutenant Bell was from Ohio, and he was the officer of the day.
“Where’s Captain Mason?” Lieutenant Sears asked.
“Guess he’s still asleep,” Lieutenant Bell replied. “How was the patrol?”
“It was a good one,” Lieutenant Sears said. “Not a fucking thing happened.”
Lieutenant Sears made his way to Captain Mason’s pup tent, but Captain Mason wasn’t inside. Where in the hell can he be? Lieutenant Sears decided that Captain Mason was either in the latrine or the mess tent, getting his morning cup of coffee. He headed toward the latrine, and as he drew closer he saw Captain Mason emerge from it.
Captain Mason had short black hair and rugged features that always seemed on the verge of a sardonic smile. “You’re back!” he said to Lieutenant Sears.
“Yes sir.”
“Any problems?”
“No sir.”
“See anything interesting?”
“No sir.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No sir.”
“I guess the Japs are quiet tonight,” Captain Mason said. “I’ll relay the information to Colonel Hutchins right now. You write out your report and have it on my desk no later than”—Captain Mason glanced at his watch—“oh-six hundred hours.”
“Yes sir.”
Lieutenant Sears headed back to the command post tent, to write out his report, and Captain Mason walked toward Colonel Hutchins’s headquarters, to relay this new intelligence information.
Colonel Hutchins sat at his desk, his eyes bleary and bloodshot, his jaw hanging slack. He hadn’t slept all night and felt as though he was going to die at any moment.
No longer did he crave booze or cigarettes. He was too sick to crave anything except basic health and well-being. He had a headache and a stomach ache. Every muscle and joint in his body hurt. The thought of food made him nauseous. He was constipated and his lower abdomen felt as though it was filled with cement.
He wondered if he was fit to command his regiment. He deliberated whether to go to the hospital and collapse, letting someone else take over. He felt as though he was going to die at any moment, but maybe a cup of coffee would help.
“Officer of the day!” he said hoarsely.
“Yes sir!” said a voice in the other part of the tent.
“Get me a cup of black coffee right away!”
“Yes sir.”
Colonel Hutchins wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He was covered with cold sweat, and then he farted noisily. He saw silver streaks spinning around inside the tent. He never realized, when he’d sworn to stop drinking and smoking, that it’d get this bad.
He held his hand out in front of him, and it shook uncontrollably. I’m falling apart, he thought. Maybe I ought to tell General Hawkins that I’m unfit for command.
“Sir?” said a voice on the other side of the tent flap.
“Bring that coffee in here!” Colonel Hutchins demanded.
“I don’t have any coffee, sir.”
“I thought I told you to get me some goddamned coffee!”
“You never told me to get you any coffee. I just got here. This is Captain Mason speaking.”
“Oh, Phil—I didn’t realize it was you. Come on in. Whataya want?”
Captain Mason pushed aside the tent flap and entered Colonel Hutchins’s office. “The patrol from the recon platoon is back,” he said. “They didn’t see anything at all on the trail that crosses through grid thirty-four.”
“Good,” Colonel Hutchins replied. “At least we won’t have to worry about Japs for a while.”
“Are you all right, sir?” Captain Mason asked.
“Yes, I’m all right.”
“You look terrible.”
“I feel terrible, but I’m all right.”
“Maybe you should go to the hospital.”
“I’m not going to any hospital. All I need is a cup of coffee.”
“I’ll get one for you, sir.”
“That’s okay. Somebody’s already doing that.” Colonel Hutchins went limp in his chair. His face became quite pale.
“Perhaps I should get a medic in here,” Captain Mason said.
“No,” replied Colonel Hutchins.
“You look awfully sick, sir.”
“I’m not sick. I’m just a drunk who’s gone off the bottle.”
“Maybe you’d better go back on it.”
“I’m not going to drink another drop in my life, even if it kills me.”
“Looks like it might, sir.”
“Then let it.”
They heard the approach of footsteps in the other section of the tent. A few moments later the officer of the day appeared, carrying a pot of coffee and a cup, which he placed on the desk. With trembling hands, Colonel Hutchins poured coffee into the cup and raised it to his lips. The coffee burned his tongue as he gulped it down.
Captain Mason took a package of Chesterfields out of his shirt pocket. “Cigarette, sir?”
“Get them goddamn cigarettes out of here!” Colonel Hutchins looked at the officer of the day. “What the hell are you doing standing there looking at me like I’m a geek!”
“I’m sorry sir, I—”
“Get the hell out of this office!”
“Yes sir.”
The officer of the day turned and fled. Colonel Hutchins looked at Captain Mason. “You may leave also.”
“Yes sir.”
“Thanks for the information.”
Captain Mason marched out of the office. Colonel Hutchins gulped down the remaining coffee in the cup and then pou
red another cup. His heart beat faster and his forehead felt warm. He tried to forget his physical symptoms and concentrate on what Captain Mason had told him. No Jap activity had been reported on that main trail. If no Japs were observed on the other trails, it could mean that the Japs were finished with their attacks on the southern flank of the American line. That would indicate that the Japs were conducting a general withdrawal, and the battle for Central New Guinea would be over.
It’d been a helluva battle, Colonel Hutchins reflected, trying not to think of his shaking hands and pounding heart. He’d lost more than half of his regiment since arriving on New Guinea on June 28, less than a month ago. But it seemed like a year. It certainly had been a nightmare. Colonel Hutchins hoped the fight was over so he and his men could be pulled off the line and sent back to Honolulu for Rest and Recuperation.
The phone on his desk rang, and Colonel Hutchins’s nerves were so jangled he jumped into the air. His hands trembled wildly as he picked up the receiver. “What is it!” he demanded.
He heard the voice of the officer of the day. “Sergeant Bannon says he has to speak with you immediately, sir.”
“What the hell for?”
“He says it’s very important, sir.”
“It’d better be. Send him in.”
Colonel Hutchins hung up the phone. He wondered why Sergeant Bannon was coming to see him so early in the morning, but Colonel Hutchins always made special allowances for his good old recon platoon.
Bannon entered the office, advanced to Colonel Hutchins's desk, and saluted. “Sergeant Bannon reporting sir!”
“What the hell do you want?”
“I saw approximately two hundred Japs moving through the jungle last night!”
“What!”
“I saw—”
“I heard you the first time. I thought there weren’t any Japs in grid thirty-four last night.”
“I wasn’t in grid thirty-four last night.”
“Where the hell were you?”
“I was in the vicinity of grid eighty-nine.”
Colonel Hutchins looked at Bannon and scowled. Bannon was filthy and unshaven, and his eyes were at half-mast. “Why the hell weren’t you in grid thirty-four?”
